Take It All, Just Stay A Week
by Vociferocity
Summary: In which Stiles is finally, finally! invited to see Peter's new place. Peter maybe has an ulterior motive. (takes place during 3x02)


"If you're so interested, _fine_," Peter says with a theatrical sigh, rolling his eyes. "Once Derek and Scott get back, you can come for a visit."

"Really?" Stiles asks, dubious. He's asked about Peter's new apartment a bunch of times, and this is the first time Peter's even _come_ close to inviting him over. Can you blame him for expecting some kind of sarcastic "no, duh"?

"Really," Peter says instead. "As long as you stop annoying me until then."

"Deal!' Stiles spits out barely before he's finished his sentence, and when Peter stares expressively at him, he mimes zipping his mouth shut, locking it, and throwing away the key. Peter's eyes track the motion.

For the next - however long it takes Derek and Scott to struggle back from the bank, Stiles sits quietly on the bench.

Well - quietly for him.

"Is it furnished?" He asks at one point.

"Stiles."

"Like, with skulls? And dramatic pools of blood?"

"_Stiles_."

"I'm just _asking_, there's no need to get _huffy_."

But - whatever. He's not being annoying, clearly, or at least he's not being _that _annoying, because when Derek and Scott finally limp through the front door, Peter's already on his feet.

"Scott-?" Stiles starts, but then he feels a push on his shoulder. "God, _what_?" he asks. "I can't even ask how it went?"

"They're alive, and Boyd isn't with them. We can get the other details later."

Scott looks mildly betrayed when they sidle past without any other questions, but, you know. He won't care when Stiles tells him about this later. Hey, maybe Peter would even let him take pictures. He'll be able to show Scott the skulls (because oh, there are _definitely_ skulls).

* * *

The drive to the apartment isn't weird - isn't _that _weird. Actually, it probably _is_ weird. Peter opens the passenger door, holds it open for him. Doesn't complain that much when he fucks with the radio for literally the entire drive, never letting a song finish before flicking to the next station. It's like he's lost his bite, or at least he's keeping his mouth closed.

* * *

If the drive over is weird, well, the outside of his apartment building definitely isn't. It's ... normal, the kind of normal he wouldn't usually associate with murderous psychopathic resurrected werewolf uncle creepers. He was sort of expecting maybe some kind of long drive up a creepy mountain with a tall, dark castle up the top. Maybe with heads on spikes lining the road?

_Definitely_ heads on spikes.

This is just a tall brick building though, with large windows at regular intervals from top to bottom, with a plain old door at the bottom and a long, low wall lined with letterboxes at the front.

Stiles is -

"Frankly, I'm disappointed," he hears himself say. "This is _it_? This is _boring_."

"The skulls and winged monkeys are all inside, I'm afraid," Peter says flatly. "There are regulations, you know."

"I didn't!" Stiles says, delighted. "Do winged monkeys count as pets? Are you even _allowed _to have winged monkeys as pets?"

Peter sighs loudly, like he can't believe he humoured Stiles for even a moment, and turns the engine off, unclips his seatbelt, and unlocks the doors - wait -

"The doors were locked?" Stiles asks. "What the _fuck_?"

"Safety," Peter says blandly, but Stiles doesn't trust that blank face for a second; he's not an idiot, okay.

"Sure," he says, loudly sarcastic, unclipping his own seatbelt. "And I'm a _winged monkey_."

"You can join the rest of my flock," Peter says, harmless smile widening unpleasantly. Stiles is not entirely sure that he's kidding.

"Why am I even here?" he asks himself, climbing out of the car.

"Who knows," Peter says, somehow already - fuck you, werewolf speed - next to him, one arm around his shoulders.

"Um - " Stiles starts, trying to shrug him off. Peter's grip tightens, and Stiles looks at the ground, starts legitimately questioning why he's here. Peter is psychotic, he's probably lured Stiles here to kill and eat him, what was he _thinking_?

"If the other residents ask who you are," Peter cuts through his panicked internal ramble with a low voice directly into his ear, "you're my nephew."

"Uhhh, right now I look like a _snack_," Stiles says, looking everywhere but at any of the windows on the building. People could be seeing this? He sincerely hopes they're calling the police, why do people let him make decisions? "An _underage_ snack."

Peter chuckles darkly, and Stiles makes another attempt at shrugging him off. This time, Peter humours him, sliding his arm away. Maybe he was just trying to be funny? Stiles' heart rate doesn't think Peter is terribly hilarious, _sorry_. Don't quit your day job, asshole.

* * *

The inside of the building is just as dull as the outside; dark plum carpets, and white stone walls, with a big staircase leading up that looks about a zillion years old. There are a handful of wooden doors around the square lobby, and all the probably-sensible terror Stiles had been harbouring flies out the window and is replaced by curiosity as Peter goes to unlock one, and he realises he's seriously, finally about to see Peter's evil lair.

Allison would be _so_ disappointed in him.

But she's not here to make perfect disapproving eyebrows at him is she, so he follows Peter through the door, crossing his fingers both figuratively and literally for skulls on spikes, or at least a few blood-splattered walls.

Pretty disappointingly, he gets neither. He walks into a cream hallway, with a few doors flush to the wall - cupboards, he guesses? - that opens into a large living space. There's one big, comfortable looking couch along one wall, and a tv on the opposite wall. Regular person living room things, or whatever, although there's something that feels a little _off_.

Stiles makes what he hopes is Disappointed Face at Peter, who just shrugs.

"You weren't _really _expecting an evil lair, were you?" he asks, before strolling through a door into what Stiles assumes is the kitchen. "Want a beer?"

"Again: _underage_," Stiles says.

"I'm _aware_," Peter snarks back. "But fine." He reappears with an open bottle of beer, leans against the wall while he takes a drink. Stiles makes every effort not to notice the long line of his jaw, the curve of his neck, and the smooth motion of his adam's apple when he swallows.

He totally succeeds. He's had a dry mouth all day, it's not even a thing.

"Now," Peter says when he's finished drinking, or showing off, or whatever he was doing. "I believe I was giving you a tour?"

"Sure?" Stiles squeaks. He coughs into his hand, and continues - "I mean, sure. Yeah. That was happening. Uh, nice place you've got here! Very...very normal."

"Stiles, must you always believe the worst of me?" Peter says in the mockingest mock-hurt voice Stiles has ever heard. "Of course my apartment is normal."

He steps closer, and Stiles can feel his free hand settle on the small of his back; a warm, solid weight that for some _crazy_ reason, he doesn't think he'll be able to shrug off as easily as before.

"You've seen the living room already, and the kitchen is pretty dull," Peter says, soft and coaxing in his ear, "so let's go this way."

He leads Stiles through the comfortable, if sparsely furnished, room; the hand on his back not quite pushing him along, but a definite reminder of who's in charge here. Stiles refuses to regret this decision, and also refuses to believe Peter's claim of normality, because _hello_, if the living room and kitchen are done, what else is there?

Torture dungeon, _duh_.

Or, as Stiles realises as he steps through a door into, of course, the _bedroom_.

"Uhhh," Stiles says loudly. "Maybe - you meant to lead us to the kitchen? Kitchen's back that way, man. I think we missed the exit?"

"Calm down," Peter says as he slips in after Stiles, amusement loud and clear in his voice. "I'm just giving you the tour."

"Right," says Stiles dubiously. "Um, okay, but then why didn't we -"

"Want a sip?" Peter asks, cutting him off. His voice is friendly as he offers Stiles the beer, but there's something hard in his eyes.

Stiles looks at him for a long moment, then looks away. "Sure," he says brightly. "If you're cool with letting a minor drink, I'm cool. We just won't tell my dad."

"There are a lot of things you don't tell your dad," Peter says. "What's one or two more?"

Stiles' stomach does a couple of interesting flips before turning into a flock of butterflies that are somehow both terrified and exhilarated.

"Right," he agrees, once they've settled a little. He looks back up at Peter as he takes the beer; his eyes are dark and intense, and Stiles gets the feeling he's absolutely agreeing to more than an illicit sip of beer. It's not like he's not interested, right?

He closes his eyes as he drinks, to not have to watch Peter watch his throat, or his mouth, or whichever body part is the reason he's alone in this bedroom with this definitely unsafe adult.

When he finally lowers the bottle from his lips and opens his eyes, Peter is standing a hell of a lot closer than he was a minute ago.

Startled, he takes half a step backwards, almost tripping over the low table next to the door. Peter's hand on his back tightens, and pulls him in before he can fall.

"Thanks," he gasps, heart racing.

"No problem," Peter says, reeling him in, closer and closer, until Stiles is pretty much pressed flush against his chest, heartbeat deciding to never slow down ever, because _ohgod_ -

And then Peter's lowering his head, and licking an errant drop of beer from Stiles' mouth, and Stiles has basically expired, this is it, he's done, someone tell his dad his passwords so his online friends can know he's died -

And then Peter's sucking Stiles' lower lip into his mouth and biting down, swiping his tongue across and in, and ok _fuck that_, Stiles refuses to die _ever _because this is the best, why isn't he doing this _always_, and oh my god he's not even doing anything he's just standing there -

He leaps into action, almost spilling the beer in an effort to get at least one hand buried in Peter's hair. He presses closer, clumsily reciprocating the kiss, mouth pressed obscene and intimate to Peter's. He pulls back for a moment to breathe, and Peter makes a low, displeased noise before hauling him back into the kiss.

"Wait, wait," Stiles breathes, pulling away again, "Seriously, hold on for like _one second_, I need to put this down, and then we need to keep doing this forever or something, and - " he trails off as he realises Peter's not pulling him in again, just letting him ramble, eyes fixed on his mouth.

"Go on, then," Peter says huskily, and Stiles is pretty sure he's never been this hard in his entire life, and he has no idea what he's supposed to be doing, because oh god Peter's _mouth_. "Put the drink down," Peter continues, lip curling in amusement, and right, yeah.

Stiles almost spills the beer - probably _does_ spill it a little, who even cares - putting it down, but as soon as it's down he's pressed up against Peter again, both hands urgently curled around the back of his neck.

"Eager little thing, aren't you," Peter murmurs into his mouth. It's not a question, and from the dark heat in his voice, it's hardly a criticism.

Stiles is about halfway through putting together a witty rejoinder when Peter's mouth crashes back on his; soft and yet unyielding at the same time, the heat from his tongue curling its way around his body and pooling in his dick. Then Peter puts his hands on his shoulders, urges him with steady pressure across the room, until the backs of his legs are bumping into something soft -

oh. Until he's backed up against the bed.

"Sit down now, there's a good boy," Peter says, and it's not so much that Stiles sits down so much as his knees have sort of stopped knowing how to be knees, and sitting is pretty much the only thing he can do at this point. Peter presses the advantage, one knee on the bed next to Stiles' hip. He pushes him down onto the bed, hands and mouth a hot, insistent pressure coaxing him to lie flat. Brackets Stiles' hips with his knees, cages Stiles' wrists with his hands, pressing close and hot and intimate until Stiles can barely _think _through a fog of arousal, until he has no idea where he ends and Peter begins.

And then Peter pulls away.

"Mmn, no, what?" Stiles mumbles blankly, eyes still half-closed, mouth tingling and bruised. He suddenly has no idea what to do with it if he's not kissing. This is crazy. This is the best thing ever. Why doesn't he make out with people all day long?

"I'm being greedy," Peter says confidingly, almost close enough to pull back into a kiss, eyes sharp and glittering, grazing Stiles' tender mouth with his gaze.

"What?" Stiles asks again. His brain still isn't, you know, _working_. Like,_ at all_. Where's the on button, he wonders fuzzily. How does he kick this shit back into gear?

"I think you should get a turn on top," Peter says deliberately, and wow ok, clearly that was the on button, because Stiles suddenly feels entirely, completely awake.

"Uhhh," he says, super coherently, and bats at Peter's shoulders.

"I guess I'll take that as a yes?" Peter asks, but he doesn't wait for an answer, just nimbly clambers off and away, leaving Stiles to - well, first he needs to adjust himself, his dick is not a happy camper in his jeans right now, who invented these, they're terrible, no room at all - but then he stands up, turns around, and oh good baby werewolf Jesus, Peter is sprawled on the bed, arms crossed behind his head, long legs stretched out, and - oh yeah, _totally_ hard in his jeans.

Stiles takes a second to feel proud of himself, but before he can really milk it, Peter clears his throat impatiently.

"Yeah yeah, hold your horses," Stiles snaps. "Sorry for enjoying the moment, _god_."

He climbs belligerently back onto the bed, carefully straddles Peter, and tries not to laugh at the sheer what the seriously fucking fuck of it all. Tries very hard, thanks. Fails a little, but tries, and trying is important, that's what they say.

"What?" Peter frowns up at him, and Stiles figures he's asking about the laugh, so he shrugs.

"This is bizarre," he offers, and then leans down, kisses Peter loudly and hilariously on the mouth, a chaste peck mostly meant to change the subject. Peter slides one hand into his hair before he can escape, holds him close, slips his tongue into Stiles' mouth and ravishes it thoroughly. Ravages? Stiles can't remember which one is which while his brain is occupied with kissing and wondering how hard it is physically possible to get without coming in his jeans, but Peter is definitely doing one of the two. Maybe both. Probably both.

Stiles is putting all his energy into staying upright - his wrists are starting to burn, this is a totally awkward position, but he's way too turned on right now to give a shit - and attempting not to come from the brief but thankfully recurring moments of brain-stoppingly hot friction between his and Peter's tragically denim-encased dicks.

Possibly Peter is feeling similar things, because after another indeterminable period of hands down the best kissing of Stiles' life, he slides one hand out of Stiles' hair. He trails it down the back of Stiles' neck, scrapes sharp claws over his shoulder - Hazily, Stiles wonders when his claws popped out. He doesn't feel punctured. Yet. - and continues ever-southward, a sharp line down Stiles' back and over his hip, drawing a lazy circle around Stiles' dick.

"Breathe," Peter reminds him fondly, punctuating himself by palming Stiles' dick through his jeans. To be honest, Stiles wasn't aware that he had stopped breathing, and now he's finding it super hard to start up again.

"Uh - are you - are we -" he stammers, once he's got breathing on lock.

Peter raises an unfairly elegant eyebrow, and Stiles can feel himself flush.

"Are we...?"

"Nevermind," Stiles mutters down at his dick, still spectacularly hard, still spectacularly uncomfortable, still spectacularly in Peter's grip. "Let's just. Full speed ahead!"

"If you're sure," Peter says, but it's clear he doesn't care what Stiles is or isn't sure about, freeing the top button of Stiles' jeans almost before he's finished speaking.

Stiles makes an inarticulate noise. Peter grins at him, teeth a little too sharp, and unzips, slides his hand - claws and all, Stiles notices with a healthy dose of terror - into Stiles' underwear and around his dick. Skin on skin.

"_Ohmygod_," Stiles says in a rush. "Holyshityes." This is officially the best day of his life.

Peter's terrifying smile isn't going anywhere, but Stiles doesn't give a shit. If the man's willing to touch his dick, he's allowed to be as creepy as he likes.

The hand in Stiles' hair slides down, curling comfortably around his neck. Stiles' world narrows to the points of sharp pain on his neck, the glint of Peter's teeth, the unbearable throb of his dick. He bites back a moan, but he can't stop a full-body shudder, can't stop from rocking forward into Peter's firm grip, rubbing his dick against Peter's denim bulge. Peter's dick twitches against his, he can feel it even through the fabric, and this time he can't stop a helpless groan from slipping out, eyes sliding shut.

"Look at me," Peter reprimands, claws on Stiles' neck digging in just enough to startle.

When Stiles opens his eyes, Peter's gaze is penetrating. He licks his lips; slowly, deliberately. Stiles shuts his eyes desperately, then opens them again immediately. He can't _bear_ this, but he can't miss a single moment.

Peter slides his hand off Stiles' dick for just long enough to free his own. He pulls a small tube out of his pocket -

"Is that-" Stiles starts in disbelief, cutting himself off with a moan as Peter squeezes some lube into his hand and then wraps his large hand around both of them, tight enough that Stiles sees stars.

"You sure are having trouble with your words today," Peter says a little meanly. "Something on your mind?"

Stiles would be mean right back, but he can hear the strained note in Peter's voice, and also he's a little busy appreciating someone else's hand on his dick for the first time ever, actually. Not to mention starting to wonder if he can do some touching of his own.

His hands are awkwardly fisted in the sheets on either side of the man he's straddling, which means they're actually in a perfect position to slide up Peter's hips, one staying there and holding on tight, the other making the whole pilgrimage to Peter's hand, which is - curiously motionless.

He looks up, and finds Peter watching him intently.

"You're being greedy again." Stiles manages to say it with a mostly straight face, but his ears feel a little hot.

The sheer awkwardness is worth the reaction though; Peter's eyes widen in surprise, then darken with satisfaction.

"How impolite of me," he says, releasing their dicks and lounging back, crossing his arms behind his head casually. "They're all yours."

Stiles would be intimidated because sex, but touching a dick is something he has years of experience with. This is well-tread ground! No path less taken bullshit today, no sir!

It's the work of a moment to slick his hand and get it around their dicks, and it's in precisely that moment that he discovers just how wrong he was.

Two dicks is different. Different, and _better_.

He tightens his grip, thrusts into it, rubs against Peter's cock, and that's the final sexy straw on an unbearably sexy camel's back. He comes with a bitten-off moan; eyes closed, toes clenched.

When he opens his eyes, Peter's looking at him impatiently. Clearly the man needs a little more attention, there's no time for Stiles to really enjoy the afterglow.

He releases his own over-sensitive dick, and tightens his grip on Peter's. Jerks him off slow and steady and _teasing_, the way he likes to touch himself before he's ready to come, until Peter's clever mouth is wordless and breathless, teeth clenched and eyes wild.

"Stiles -" he gasps, trailing into a growl that's all pleasure.

"Having trouble with your words today?" Stiles teases, rubbing his thumb over the head of Peter's cock. "Something on your mind?"

"_Stiles_," Peter repeats.

"Oh fine," Stiles says, speeding up and grinning at the choked moan that produces. "Spoilsport!"

He doesn't soften his grip, just slows, as he works Peter through his orgasm. He's rewarded with what he feels is the most honest look on Peter's face he's ever seen - the fact that it's a look of total pleasure is just an awesome bonus.

"So," Stiles says after a long silence. "Nice place you've got here."


End file.
